


Mind Over Matter

by estepheia



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Season/Series 05, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because there's no scar in Gunn's chest, it doesn't mean he's unhurt... Set after Angel 5x19 <i>Time Bomb</i>, but before 5x21 <i>Power Play</i>. Written 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Over Matter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mefnord. Many thanks to makd for her excellent betaing!

He wakes to a never-ending scream. Chains chime, flames crackle and pop, logs burst in a shower of sparks. Everything is familiar in a heart-stopping way, except his heart pounds in his chest louder and fiercer than a wrecking ball. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gunn scrambles into a sitting position, wide-eyed, gasping, the smell of blood and fire in his nostrils. One hand flies to his neck but there's nothing there, no amulet on a string, no blue fingers crushing his wind-pipe. Just his throat, sore from screaming.

He's in bed. Not stretched out on a hard wooden table, but lying in his king-sized bed with its soft mattress and with sheets that are clammy and wet, tangled round his legs like iron clamps. Not the basement then, but his bedroom, and Mr. Randall from next door banging against the wall, yelling at him to shut the fuck up.

According to the alarm clock it's 5.19 – welcome to another fun day.

* * *

The early birds are already chirping cheerfully to greet another sunny, smog-dyed dawn, when Spike noisily stumbles down the stairs. Without ever letting go of his half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, he fumbles with the lock, then staggers inside, barely remembering to slam the door shut behind him.

He doesn't quite make it to the bed. With a muttered "Home, sweet home" Spike collapses on the sofa, knocking a full ashtray off the armrest. Ashes and cigarette butts scatter over the threadbare carpet unheeded. Fully dressed, nose buried in a musty couch pillow, bottle in the cradle of one arm, Spike starts to snore. 

Not a single dream penetrates his haze.

* * *

Their paths cross six hours later.

"You look terrible," Gunn remarks, when Spike steps into the elevator. The vampire looks worn and rumpled as if he slept in his clothes. In the confines of the elevator the miasma of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey that surrounds him is difficult to miss.

"Yeah?" Spike shrugs. "Same to you."

"Still sparring with Illyria?" Gunn asks, nodding dubiously at Spike's clipboard.

"S'posed to suss out what Li'l Girl Blue's capable of, now that Percy pulled the plug and her mightiness' powers got sucked down the drain."

"Oh… good." Remembering that Spike enjoys brawling and fighting, Gunn adds awkwardly: "Knock yourself out."

Spike answers with a dismissive wave, which could mean 'thanks', or 'never mind' or 'you too.'

They fall silent. Two floors down Spike gets off, heading for the weapons lab. With a sigh, Gunn pushes the button that will take him back to a desk buried under records and files.

* * *

Even without her wonky-time-mojo Illyria still has quite a punch to her. And a kick. Not to mention a spectacular Spine Buster. Nifty move, that. Almost breaks Spike's back with that one. It may look spectacular when a 250 pound WWF masked wonder dishes it out to a sumo-sized opponent. However, when a thin, blue-hued bag-of-sticks girl does it to a badass vampire, 'humiliating' is the word you're looking for.

The crash knocks the wind out of him. For a moment Spike's paralyzed by pain and wheelchair memories, but then he tries to crawl away, out of her reach.

"This is futile," Illyria mutters. Moments later her knee digs painfully into Spike's back and his arm is nearly torn from the socket, when she pins him down like a beetle in a show case.

Spike yelps and slaps his hand on the floor in surrender. "All right, we'll call it a draw," he chokes out between gritted teeth.

Disgusted, Illyria lets go. She gets up and circles him wordlessly, head tilted in her curious bird-of-prey fashion.

Spike wipes his mouth, stares at the red streak on his hand, then staggers to his feet, panting but grinning happily. At least he managed to land a few good hits of his own. Illyria's cheek is disfigured by a purple bruise and Spike can tell by her movements that her ribs are hurting. Not broken—he'd have felt the bones give underneath his fists—but definitely bruised.

"Fragile. Puny. Weak. Pitiful," Illyria intones.

At least one of his own ribs is cracked, but he never lasted this long before. It's not every day that you get to beat the stuffing out of a god king, even if he/she/it has had most of his/her/its fangs pulled.

Spike grins. "Oh, come now, don't tell me that wasn't fun, pet."

"Crippled. " Illyria sinks to her knees and withdraws behind a curtain of hair. "Oceans parted to appease me, volcanoes cowered when I passed. And now? Less than vermin; barely able to vanquish a pathetic half-breed," her voice comes from behind the screen, brittle with bitterness and self-loathing. "I should have expired in a blaze of glory on a pyre fuelled by a billion souls."

Spike's grin fades. "Relax, Flax. You can still mop the floor with ninety-nine point nine per cent of the fightin' population." He awkwardly reaches with his hand to pet her shoulder, hesitates, then changes his mind. With Illyria one never knows. She might take offense and rip both his arms out.

Spike crouches down beside her. "Look. Yours truly happens to have spent a century brawlin' with the best of 'em. You break in that new body of yours for a century, you'll probably snap my spine for real next time—and in half the time."

Illyria gives no indication that she's listening.

"Pet?"

Spike waits for another minute, then shrugs and stands up. "You change your mind and want another go? Let me know. Wanna talk? Same thing."

He moves off towards the shower with half a limp and half a swagger.

* * *

Gunn stares at the open file in front of him. He's read that page four times now and it still doesn't make sense. It's not the brain boost; that's working just fine; it's the memories. Whenever his weary mind wanders, the flashbacks come, brief stabs of intense panic during which he's back in the basement, with a knife about to plunge into his chest, saw through his ribs and cut out his heart.

He's been injured before. Never bothered him much. You bruise; you heal; you forget. But this is different. The memories stay razor-sharp. The basement's always there, lurking somewhere beneath his feet. Every door Gunn opens feels like it might lead down that dimly lit flight of stairs, back into that dark basement. Back to a wooden carving table. Back to the pain.

Back to the gut-wrenching question: Will they come for him?

Gunn rubs his eyes until purple flecks obscure his vision. If he drinks any more coffee his stomach will self-destruct.

Can't work, can't sleep. Maybe a shower will help.

* * *

Pain. It lessens as her cells repair the damaged tissue of her shell. Illyria has total recall. She remembers every nuance of pain, can replay the moment where the nerve impulse was most intense. It disturbs her that she does not want to feel pain. Already this shell is bending her will to its needs.

Adaptation. Compromise.

Illyria stares at the floor of the sparring room, scrying the woodgrain of the parquet in an attempt to understand the intricacies of death. Time interacting with organic matter. The floor used to be a growing, breathing tree. Alive. Now it is just dead matter at her feet, sliced up and polished because humans find the random veins aesthetically pleasing.

For Illyria the floor is just that, a floor. Neither pleasing nor objectionable.

The hybrid is an entirely different matter.

* * *

When Gunn approaches the shower room he is greeted by rampant humidity. Steam billows towards him. Spike's duster hangs from a peg alongside a couple of white lab coats. The habitual black pants and tee are draped over it. There's a pair of boots as well, and socks with holes in them, but no underwear.

Gunn briefly considers coming back later, but then he shrugs, puts down his bundle of clean clothes—the one he always keeps in the office because you never know what kind of goo this job gets on your clothes—and strips. He needs to chase away the cold dread that weighs down his bones, needs to wash off the stench of fear that clings to his skin. 

There's a stack of white bathing towels on a shelf, all bearing W & H initials in red. Gunn grabs one, wraps it around his hips, and walks into the hot mist.

Of the six shower heads in the room Spike has chosen the one furthest from the door. He stands facing the wall, leaning forward, right arm outstretched, hand braced against the powder-blue tiles. Hot water is pelting down on his lowered head and on the curved nape of his long neck, immersing him in a cloud of spray.

Spike's slender back is a gently arched slope that drags Gunn's gaze down to shockingly sharp hipbones and a lean but shapely ass. Gunn does not stop there. Following rivulets of water that disappear between slightly parted thighs, his gaze skitters over finely sculpted legs and calves down to even feet that would make a Greek statue proud, then back up to the twin globes of Spike's ass.

But it's not Spike's ass that roots Gunn to the spot, it's the bruises—a fascinating mix of blue and purple contusions, covering his milky flanks and ribs. Man, that's gotta hurt.

While Gunn is gaping, open mouthed, Spike is moving and twitching. It takes Gunn a full second to realize that Spike is lazily thrusting into his left hand.

Blood rushes to his face. "Oh! I… uh, sorry, man."

"Always had a thing for chicks strong enough to beat me to a pulp," Spike's deep rumble comes out of the shimmering mist. He doesn't interrupt his steady, languid rhythm. His hips thrust forward and backward, pushing in and out, in and out. "Got nothing to do with her, if that's what you're thinking."

To tell the truth, Gunn hasn't been thinking at all. He's too busy staring. "I… uh… I'll just—" He points both thumbs behind him and starts to back away.

"Just pick a shower," Spike grumbles. "Don't tell me you never seen another bloke beat off before." The mesmerizing movement stops. Fingers still wrapped around his dick, Spike turns his head sideways to regard Gunn. Water drips off his chin and his unruly hair. A faint smile curves Spike's lips. One might almost call it a leer.

"Hey, do I have the right to remain silent?" Gunn asks nervously. His heart is racing, but not in fear.

Spike laughs, open-mouthed, vibrant. One eyebrow darts up mischievously. "Come on, Charlie-boy. Seen yours," he points out, referring to one of his Casper pranks. "'S only fair you should see mine."

"Is that supposed to make me feel comfortable?" Gunn asks. "Cause, man, it's working."

"Good." Spike grins. Holding Gunn's gaze, he resumes the slow rocking motion of his hips. With each thrust Gunn can see the dark bulbous head peek out of Spike's milk-white fist, glistening wet. Definitely not a sight Gunn ever expected to see.

"As you were, mate." Spike lets his eyes fall shut and resumes his earlier posture and rhythm. In. Out. Immersed in his fantasy again. 

Gunn swallows. For the first time since Illyria saved him, he feels himself hardening. The disconcerting fact that he's getting a hard-on from watching another man jerk off is swept aside by profound relief. For six days he's been too wound-up to sleep and too limp to do anything about it. The knowledge that this is a normal side-effect of being tortured doesn't help.

He picks a shower on the opposite wall, takes off his towel, and turns the water on.

* * *

Spike's body is a landscape of pain, but that's alright. This is well-earned pain--not the kind that's done to you, but the kind that tells you you're alive and kicking. Heightens the pleasure, it does. Immersed in heat, Spike slides in and out of his soap-slick hand, bent not so much on release but on the act itself. No need to rush.

Back at Spike's basement the shower always runs out of hot water at the most inopportune moments. Puts quite a dampener on a man's pleasure. Sometimes literally. Of course there's no danger of that happening here. Spike can take his time. It would be nice to have a real body to slide into, but imagination goes a long way. And Gunn's presence adds spice.

Spike has fail-safe fantasies that get him off like a rocket, some dark and mean, others just a little illicit—perfect for a fast and furious bedtime wank, but not for a slow comfortable number in the shower. Just a few images then: what-ifs, might-have-beens and never-gonna-happens—see what sticks….

Harmony… too easy. Willow? Better. Her head, bobbing up and down between Tara's supple thighs… nice image but a touch morbid… better to stick it to the miserable ponce… yes… how d'you like that? Fuck. Requires too much effort editing out that aura of brooding. How 'bout Faith then, talking dirty? Oh yeah.

Spike's breath hitches. His hand speeds up, almost in spite of himself.

His fists gripping dark curls, Dru—no, Faith, yes, Faith blowing him or, better yet, straddling him, taking him into her sweltering heat, finally treating him to the promised gallop. That's it. Come on, pet, lift your arms above your head… Faith, inviting him to fondle her pert little breasts, then arching backwards to touch his ankles, God, yes….

Spike stifles a moan. Sure, fast stokes. Harder. Faster. Yes! Spike grips his cock harder, panting. His movements become hectic, more erratic. His hand becomes a blur.

Faith's thighs are like a vice, firm and hard, and whenever she slams down on him it's with a slight swivel of her hips it's as though she can't get enough of his cock wants him deeper and deeper inside her fuck yeah almost there and he wonders if her nipples are a frosty blue like her eyes and hair and suddenly it's Illyria with her frigid eyes and furious hands and Gunn is watching them and Illyria is riding him hard and fast till he…

…pops.

* * *

Spike is quiet, unobtrusive; Gunn has to give him that. It's almost impossible to hear him over the sound of running water—at least if Gunn moves normally.

If he moves as little as possible, the water whispers over him and he can make out a definite pattern in the splish-splash behind him, rhythmic thrusts, splat-splat, splat-splat. In-out, in-out. He can even hear skin chafing against skin.

Shower rooms often have strange acoustics, this one is no exception. Spike's ragged breathing sounds unnaturally loud. It worms itself directly into Gunn's ear, crawls into his head and down his spine, past his hammering heart and right between his legs.

Every time Spike's breath hitches, every time a half-stifled groan escapes him, Gunn gives a small unrehearsed shudder. Like an old fashioned spinning top, he's whipped into an ever faster spin by the sounds of Spike's arousal.

Gunn squirts soap into his palm and starts to lather himself up, shoulders, armpits, chest, then downwards. He tries to ignore his hard-on; he really does, but it's been so long, and it feels just right; and Spike won't mind, he as much as said so.

Thorough lathering becomes languid fondling, slow, smooth, stroking. Gunn is so wound-up, every touch sends sparks down his spine. It borders on painful. Biting his lips in concentration, Gunn grips his erection and starts to pleasure himself for real, urgently running his soap-slick fist up and down his hardened flesh, fast and hard as his need intensifies.

Behind him he can hear Spike panting, speeding up, straining towards his climax. It's a private moment and he really shouldn't….

Gunn turns his head in time to see Spike arch like a bowstring. Head thrown back, open mouthed—for two, maybe three heartbeats, Spike appears to be caught in a partial freeze-frame. Partial, because the water continues to cascade down on him. But Spike? Captured with every single muscle in his back, buttocks and thighs perfectly defined, coiled like metal springs, glistening wet.

The sight almost sends Gunn over the edge. Almost.

Suddenly Gunn feels like he's intruding. He quickly snaps back, staring steadfastly at the wall in front of him. His face is hot, maybe from shame or exertion, or maybe it's just the scalding water that's raining down on his head.

Spike's shower is turned off. Gunn does not have Spike's lack of inhibitions. Hands braced against the wall, he waits impatiently for Spike to leave. Listens to Spike's footsteps on the way out. As soon as Spike is gone, Gunn's hand flies back to his dick, which has lost some of his hardness. He resumes his rhythm, pumping fast, but a hint of desperation creeps in. He's stuck. He's getting nowhere. Wound up tightly like one of his toy robots. It's like one more turn of the key will break him, render him useless. Instead of moving towards much needed release Gunn can feel himself soften. The harder he tries, the more limp his dick gets.

This isn't working.

With a muffled sob Gunn rests his forehead against the cool tiles.

* * *

Gunn gropes blindly until he finds the tap, then turns off the water. His head is pressed against the wall hard enough to hurt.

"You're too tense," a voice startles him.

Spike. Why is he still here? Gunn's mortification—already intense—goes right off the Richter scale. He does not turn, just gives his flaccid flesh a joyless tug. "I wouldn't call that tense."

He feels old, at least a hundred and twenty, without the vampire's benefit of eternal youth and unfailing prowess. Old and bitter. "I bet vampires never—" Gunn breaks off and shakes his head.

He doesn't want to talk about this.

Seconds tick away. Gunn can tell that Spike is still there. What is he waiting for? Why isn't he leaving?

"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep, mate?" Spike asks, sounding deeply troubled.

Gunn closes his eyes, trying to remember, then shakes his head.

More silence. Then, a sigh.

"You're wrong," Spike mutters softly, sounding apprehensive as though he's picking his way through a minefield. " Some things you don't just bounce back from, like nothing ever happened. Like when someone works you over right an' proper, or when you do something so… so wrong it sickens you? You end up with wires crossed, fuses blown. All wrong in there… Mind over matter, that's what it is. A bloke gets his marbles all in a jumble an' the rest of him gets messed up as well, vampire or no."

That doesn't make a lot of sense to Gunn, but it sounds like a tacit 'been there, done that.' Normally, that would be too much information, especially from one guy to another, without lubrication of the alcoholic kind. But right now, Gunn is grateful that at least someone seems to understand….

"Luckily," Spike continues, "I got a fail-safe cure for this sort of thing."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"Me."

Gunn turns, ready to lash out, because what kind of man would try to take advantage of such a situation, but the words get stuck in his throat. Spike looks dead serious. No leer, no barbed wire smirk, no eyebrow cocked in condescension. Just embarrassment.

"You." Gunn studies the vampire before him. With a towel round his hips and his hair sticking out at odd angles, Spike is just a guy, nothing badass about him.

"Me." Spike affirms with a note of sadness. "Don't get me wrong, mate, this is strictly therapeutic. I'd do this for anyone." Beat. Then Spike adds hurriedly: "Well no, not just anyone. But, you know, for a friend. Believe me, I'd do it for the old poof too, for old time's sake, 'cause Lord knows, he needs to unwind—that is, if he had that kind of problem…"

"Do what?" Gunn interrupts impatiently.

"Lend a hand?" Spike suggests, then he lifts his chin as if trying to forestall all possible objections. "Turn around."

* * *

Gunn does not comply at once. He's got a strong independent streak after all. But after several heartbeats in which neither of them speaks or moves, he does as he's told, too weary to refuse and too proud to make a big deal out of the situation.

Spike turns the water on, then maneuvers Gunn back into the spray. A few nudges and Gunn is in position—hands braced against the wall, legs slightly spread, as though waiting to be frisked.

Gunn has the nicely-toned body of a fighter, hard and masculine. Humming, Spike squirts soap into his palm and starts to slowly wash Gunn from head to toe, before using generous amounts of slippery foam to massage muscles and tendons that are hard and unyielding from tension and stress. There is nothing overtly erotic about either procedure—on the contrary, stroking and kneading the hard lumps away has to hurt, but Gunn surrenders willingly to the treatment, just whimpers a few times.

Meanwhile, Spike recounts harmless anecdotes from his travels: "Now the Japanese, they're really good at this sort of thing," he says, trying to keep his voice level and soothing. "They have these chicks who stand on you, and then massage you with their toesies. Also have scalding hot baths, they do, hot enough to make even the dead look like lobsters."

No mention of torture or bloodshed, just trivial stuff that's supposed to put the human at ease. And not a word about what they're doing either. No sex-talk, or dirty language. They're two blokes - comrades-in-arms - who are having a conversation, is all. Nothing to it.

Meanwhile, Spike's touch becomes more languid and sensuous, targets sensitive regions more often, stroking lean thighs and buttocks, caressing a flat, well-defined belly, occasionally brushing over pert nipples. Always entreating, never demanding.

And it works. Spike feels the tension drain away, hears Gunn's heartbeat go from nervous thumping to relaxed patter, to aroused hammering.

"I'd like to go to Japan or China one day," Gunn gasps, leaning into Spike's touch, pliant and malleable. "When I was a kid I was really into Ninjas and the whole Shaolin gig. Saw all the Bruce Lee movies at least a dozen times."

Spike smiles at that, but then his skin prickles, and there's a familiar scent in the air, of lemongrass and iodine. Without interrupting the massage Spike turns his head. There she is, by the door: Illyria, watching them intently. Silently. Impervious to Spike's frown or his silently mouthed 'go away'.

"Did you know David Carradine was always high as a kite when they filmed 'Kung Fu'?" Spike asks Gunn, while keeping a wary eye on the God King.

"You watched 'Kung Fu'?" Gunn asks breathlessly, oblivious to Illyria's presence.

"Whenever I was stoned enough," Spike answers absentmindedly.

Illyria makes no move to interfere or speak, just stands there, motionless like a statue, head tilted in bafflement. Watching them unblinkingly.

Let her watch, Spike decides. Maybe she'll learn a thing or two. But if she fucks this up, he'll beat her to a pulp, because as far as he can tell Gunn is as ready as can be, mind relaxed, body primed, ready to blow a few fuses and uncross a few wires.

Spike closes in until his chest touches Gunn's back and his towel-clad hips nestle against Gunn's ass. He slings one arm around Gunn's chest to capture the slick body in a hug. Spike is grateful for the towel between them; he's hard, rock-hard in fact, and not sure if Gunn is quite bent enough to cope with another man's dick so close to his ass.

Caressing and tweaking Gunn's nipples almost accidentally with his right hand, murmuring some soothing nonsense about Turkish baths, Spike finally allows his left hand to wander south where Gunn's cock is straining for his touch.

The instant Spike's fingers reach his swollen flesh, Gunn gasps and arches into Spike's touch, hitting the curve of Spike's shoulder with the nape of his neck. Spike winces, but does not let go. Instead he presses his cheek against Gunn's. "That's right," he mutters. "I've got you." Holding him tight in his arms, Spike begins to pump Gunn's cock with sure, firm strokes, brushing his thumb over the sensitive tip with every up-stroke. Gunn goes off like a rocket, like he's been zapped by a 1.000 volt charge, bucking and twitching with desperate need, trying to twist and screw his whole soap-slick body into the tight channel of Spike's fist.

Backwards and forwards, in and out. Gunn jerks and thrusts at frantic speed, slamming into Spike's fist. Spike's towel comes undone and drops to the floor unheeded. Even the sudden sensation of Spike's rock-hard cock against his ass does not upset Gunn's feverish urgency. A high-pitched, desperate keen breaks loose from deep within.

Gunn bucks a few more times and then, with a gasp and a violent shudder, his orgasm slams into him, forceful enough to make his knees buckle. Spike holds him upright to keep him from collapsing, helping him ride out the shockwaves, while slowly and gently milking Gunn's cock, until he's fully spent.

When Spike finally turns his head, Illyria is still there, closer than before, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, her frosty gaze softened by bewilderment.

Spike is uncomfortably aware of his own aching erection. Illyria's presence isn't helping. On the contrary, it adds urgency to the situation.

In his arms, Gunn is shifting and trying to ease himself out of Spike's grip, determined to stand without help. Spike sighs and lets go, picks up his wet towel and wraps it round his hips again. When Spike looks up, Illyria is gone.

* * *

She watches them leave, not from a quickly summoned fold in the fabric of reality or time, but crouching in a dark doorway. The effect is the same. They walk past her, unaware of her exalted presence, talking about fermented mind-altering liquids.

Slaves. Pathetic creatures shackled by the matter they inhabit. Feeble minds in bodies prone to malfunction. Creatures of entropy.

Beneath her notice.

They use the elevator to reach the parking garage. Illyria uses the stairs. She does not like leaving the den of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart. It is the only place of true power open to her, one she intends to learn to control. However, when the human and the hybrid depart in a combustion-powered vehicle she follows them.

* * *

When Spike finally steps out on the balcony for a smoke, Illyria accuses him without preamble: "You are dead and so is your seed. Infertile, disgusting waste that no longer serves a purpose. Yet you continue to let the biological imperative to procreate dictate your actions." She perches on the railing, with an annoyingly perfect sense of balance, elbows resting on her thighs. "You are flawed, hybrid."

Gunn is where Spike has left him, inside, lying in his far too big king-sized bed in his bare W&H-financed penthouse apartment. Tomorrow Gunn will be embarrassed about this, about the hand-job and about having been tucked in by another bloke, but right now he's out cold, sleeping soundly.

Spike lights up and inhales then squints at the god-king. "That your way of sayin' I think with my prick? What if I am? I may be dead, but at least I feel alive."

With one dismissive gesture Illyria brushes his remark aside. "That imperative is redundant. It serves no purpose. Only the weak bend to matter."

"If you say so," Spike says amiably and takes another drag.

She continues to watch him intently. It's unnerving. Spike finishes his smoke and turns to go back inside when she addresses him again. "You called me your pet," she says.

"I did? Oh, you mean back at the gym." Spike shrugs. "So?"

"Does that mean that you lust after me?" Her face is an expressionless mask, but her body seems more tense than usual. 

Spike grins. "What? Can't you tell?"

"I can tell in humans. But you have no heartbeat, no perspiration, no body temperature. As long as you wear clothing I cannot tell how you react to my presence."

"Why, what's it to you? You wanna have a go? Take your new girl parts for a test drive?" Spike gives her a slow once over. "Don't tell me our little shower show got you all worked up. 'Cause if it did, there's hope for you yet."

"You are insolent!" In one liquid move she's off her perch, lifts him up by the lapels of his coat and slams him against the wall, her furious, no longer inscrutable face mere inches from his. "I am Illyria. God King. Ruler of worlds. I am no one's pet!"

He meets her gaze unflinchingly, even though his feet are dangling two feet above the ground and it feels like she's crushing his windpipe. An unexpected sense of déja vu rears its not-so-ugly head and Spike quickly tries to put a lid on it, but he can't help feeling a happy stab of arousal. Christ, this strong chick thing? Obviously hard-wired. He chuckles.

"Don't mock me!" She shouts and for a moment there's genuine anguish in her gaze, dispelling his mirth.

"Not laughing at you, pet," Spike chokes out. "Wouldn't dream of it." He gently touches her cheek, brushing a strand of blue hair away. God, he's such a sucker for the broken ones.

She does not flinch from his touch, but she inhales sharply and her eyes blaze with cold fury. "Your touch means nothing to me. It does not affect me. And your mind is puny, it is of no interest to me."

Spike smiles. "Then why are you here?"

Illyria recoils as though she's been slapped. Spike feels almost sorry for her. A moment later she's gone, leaving behind only a slight scent of lemongrass.

* * *

Back inside the apartment, Spike toes his shoes off, and silently makes his way into the bedroom to check on its occupant. Gunn is still asleep, but he's restless, tossing and turning, and smelling of dread. After a moment of contemplation, Spike walks over to the bed, lifts the covers and climbs in, fully dressed.

Immediately, the sleeper stills.

Moments later, Spike is asleep as well.

END


End file.
